Overdose
by Devin Trinidad
Summary: Ryou has enough of this Spirit in the Ring business and he wants to commit suicide. Unfortunately, the sociopath that resides within the Ring decides that dying is a bit too cowardly-even for his Landlord's standards.


_Pills, he keeps thinking to himself. Pills, pills, where are they? _

He's screaming in his head right now as he scavenges inside the cabinets, the drawers, and the various places where he might have placed those precious little tablets that may be the key towards his salvation.

His brown eyes are wide with desperation, his fingers claw heatedly with one thing on his mind. He wants to get those capsules; he wants to be taken out of his misery in a way that would cause little fuss. If he were to die on that very day, no one would grieve. He knew Yugi and his friends; they wouldn't care.

No one would.

There were a few clunks and clatters as bowls were pushed out of the way, food moved to precarious positions, and silverware quickly fell onto the wooden floor.

"Where are you…come on, come on," he mutters to himself. Without him realizing it, he drags elongated fingernails through his long matted hair. Once conditioned and soft to the touch, it feels like a carpet that one would find in a cheap motel with seedy characters. As his fingers rake themselves down his scalp in an effort to let go of stress, he dimly notices that there is something warm and sticky coating his digits. While he realizes that there is something wrong going on here (since when was his skin so sensitive? Or did he become strong enough to cause self-harm?) He does not care.

Why should the young man try to care about something so trivial?

It's red, it's dripping, but it's not one of his main concerns at the moment.

"Please, oh God! Where are they?" There are tears streaming down his faces like a spigot of water had been suddenly turned. The salt in his eyes burn and he's bringing his hands up to his face to wipe the unwanted moisture away from his cheeks. The sticky sap that had been transferred from his scalp to his hands was now mixing all over his fair complexion.

Smells invaded his nose.

The scent of iron and something human fills his nostrils. The smell is so strong that his search for the pills is put to a standstill as his vision continues to blur and he begins to feel a war being raged in his stomach. He tries to wipe off the offending liquid off his face.

It doesn't work.

At once, something animalistic, always straining and trying to gain control of his desires, rages to the surface. The young man, already so very broken and weak, does not put up a fight. He merely breathes deeply.

He's sucking in large gasps of breath like a person who had just been stuck under the surface of water. He's a person who has merely drowned and he wants to live! He wants to live! Where is the light of the sun? Where is the warmth of a caring soul? Where? Where?

Where are the pills?

(So confused is he that he voices no confusion at the paradox.)

He howls and he swears that the cabinets shake and rattle in reply.

"Oy, Landlord!"

The boy turns to the cause of his torment and he screams even louder. Nonplussed, the ghost glides towards him. There is a frown on his face, as if questioning the sanity of his host. While the parasite could care less about his Landlord, there is a certain duty that he must fulfill so that he may defeat the Pharaoh when the time comes. Despite the brat's useless place in nature, the Tomb Robber can't survive unless the boy does as well.

"Leave me alone! Monster!" The pathetic weakling yells at the spirit again. This time, instead of staring at the Tomb Robber like he's the spawn of Satan, the young teen slumps forward and bangs his head on the floor. There is a big thud as a result from the boy's reckless behavior, but the Tomb Robber is passive as he watches the rise and fall of the boy's shoulders.

The nasty spirit is not the compassionate type; the role of forgiveness and smothering should be one reserved for females. No, he thinks to himself, the boy should learn that there is more to life than taking the easy way out. The man knows that there are far more dreadful, horrid things to cry over. Images of a village collapsing in on itself, people careening down alleyways to escape, the smell of burning still irritates his nostrils. Through his mind's eye, he can still see the sorcerers sacrificing his kinsmen into one pot to create the creations known as the Sennen Items. To see a person, especially his host, crying over the loss of freedom or something so mundane is irksome.

The urge to kill grows stronger as the boy's cries become louder.

The spirit walks closer to the boy so that the toe of his shoe scrapes the cloth of his host's pants. He is powerful enough to be corporal for a few minutes at a time. At first, through the blood and the incessant sniffling, the young man does not take notice. If he does, he does not change his mournful attitude, the wails of a newborn resounding in the flat. The Tomb Robber stands vigil over him, his eyes are cold and hard, his stance rigid and unmoving.

If he so chooses, the Stealer of Souls could just snap the boy's scrawny neck, take a knife towards his jugular, squeeze the life out of him…. the Tomb Robber merely stares and waits for the apex of the storm to abate. There is no use in talking to a foolish human about rationality and responsibility.

He waits and he listens.

The long, drawn out cries slowly transform into shudders and hiccups. Instead of a jerky shake that the boy's body had adopted during his breakdown, his chest heaves with long breaths, his body is completely slack against the floor. It's as if he was like a puddle of blood, just oozing out of a gash, slowly marring everything in it's path and after a while, congealing.

That's when the Tomb Robber fancies that he thinks the boy has been crying out for so long, the blood that had escaped the confines of flesh was turning a shade of brown. It's a nostalgic sight, but before the dark spirit can reminisce, the boy's voice tumbles out of his mouth like a frog hopping on water.

"Kill… kill me now." The voice is weak, drained. It's almost husky, the quality of tone having been knocked down a few pegs because of his shouting. The boy slowly moves so that his back is to the floor, his face is turned towards the ceiling, and his hair with the congealing blood starts sticking on the wood.

"I need you alive, Landlord," the spirit of the Sennen Ring smoothly replies. He is crouching now. His knees are just inches above the boy's neck. If he was feeling bloodthirsty enough, he could easily crush the boy's windpipe, rendering him unable to breathe. "Not many people get to see how kind I am. Don't you see, my lovely Landlord?"

His voice is a low melody, not the harsh, grating sound of a slave driver. His tone has taken on the high-pitched chimes of a lovely mother—his mother. The words become softer and softer, the notes taking on the quality of a lullaby.

The boy shakes his head. His heart is still beating so quickly, so lively. He knows that in the grand scheme of things, he's not important. At all. The only thing that's separating him from death is that his body is the life source from which the evil spirit thrives. It's disgusting, completely immoral, and the mortal wants to end it all.

Face smeared with blood, he makes sure that his 'loving tenant' gets to see the fruits of his desperation. The boy even goes to far as to breathe raggedly, as if his ribs were being crushed; he's hoping that the age-old spirit has the morality, or the decency to let him go.

"You don't need me, I'm useless! So do it! I don't care how, just do it!" Blood that has been smeared on his cheeks and eyelids is once again being cleared away with tears.

The Tomb Robber has a bored expression on his face, as if he actually sees a crying toddler who wants his candy back. Instead of acquiescing to the boy's pleas for death, the much older man caresses the boy's face, not minding the human liquid.

His caress could be seen as affectionate, but the younger man knew the meaning of the gesture; this was a sign of possession. Regardless of his earlier wishes, the boy tries to scoot away from his tormentor. If he was to be killed, he wants to be killed as a free man, not a slave to the Egyptian. Unfortunately, the thief was not having any of that.

The boy feels cool air from where the hand has touched him and he relaxes.

The he feels a smack bringing him back to reality.

"You're a coward, Landlord." The thief ignores the cries of true pain coming from the figure on the floor, only concentrating on the urges to control his insanity and bloodlust. _He's just a boy he tries to remind himself. He's just a boy who must be reminded that I get to decide whether he lives or dies._ He has no choice; this boy yowling on the cool floor is his Landlord. The thought of possessing this body sickens him. So weak and pathetic, the Tomb Robber thinks.

"Shut up, boy," he growls. The whimpers subside, but there is still tears rolling down smattered cheeks and the thief idly wonders what fresh blood would look on him. "I may not understand the goings on in this century, but I know you better than most people will. You're a coward with a death wish; I'm a thief with no soul. I am more than willing to smother the life out of you, but I need a fresh body." His face becomes even closer to the boy's, warm breath coating his ear as the young man tries not to flinch so much. The trembling, the slight whimpers, the monster that has invaded the teen's home revels in it. He feels like he's home.

Suddenly, it seems like the world has spun off its axis as the boy's slim fingers try to pry the man's knee off his throat. His brown eyes are wide, his breaths come out in sharp gasps, and his body does its best to move under the grip of death.

"Scared?" There's a mocking tone that coats the thief's voice. His knee digs deeper into the boy's neck, centimeters becoming inches, inches resulting in shortness of breath and a darkening vision. There's a satisfaction that glows in the thief's eyes as he watches the boy writhe under him. This was what the boy wanted. This was what he was begging for.

Coward he thinks. Cowardly Landlord he sneers in his head.

Still, the demon muses as he notices that the body is slowly giving up life and becoming less and less animate. He needs the brat more than he let on. If he dies, all his plans would go to waste and he would be trapped within the Ring once again. If he were a lesser man, the thief would have winced in frustration. Despite his want for a hasty decision, he still displayed caution. Should he or should be not take the life of this boy?

The man thinks for a split second before a blank look coats his eyes. They are dull now and he eases the pressure his knee is creating.

The game is finished now. The hands that had been dealt were useless and no one won. The game is finished he thinks as he stares unblinkingly at the boy.

"You shouldn't be scared, little one. If I weren't so charitable you would be dead. Don't I make a nice tenant?"

At those words, the boy realizes that the pressure on his neck has subsided. His vision clears, his throat starts to greedily inhale the air, and he gazes into his tormentor's eyes.

"Why?" He doesn't understand. He almost doesn't want to understand. The young man tries to sit up, but falls back down with a pained grunt. He closes his eyes once again, the shame of struggling fresh in his mind. "Why?"

The only answer is the sound of footsteps going into the bathroom. After a few thuds and the sound of slamming cabinet doors, the Tomb Robber returns. There is a case in his hands clinking with items that are used for those who are in need of medical treatment. Without any thought to his host's predicament, he throws the medical kit on his chest and hovers over the poor boy.

"You deserve worse than death, my cowardly Landlord," was the harsh whisper that wafts into the boy's ear.

The lips that were mere centimeters away from the boy's sensitive ears move away and the teenager thinks that he's alone, but it's too good to be true. There is still some slight movement, there is still evidence that the thief is still present in the room. The boy waits in apprehension before the man speaks again.

"I'm allowing you life to live. I hope that is sufficient for payment tonight." The thief leaves once he makes an internal promise to not imprison as a doll tonight, but he'll be sure to be steal his host's body tomorrow evening.

And so, the boy rests there, not moving until faint light becomes the darkness that frightens him. His movements are jerky and slow, but he manages to rise and examine himself.

He's battered, bruised, and mentally scarred.

The parasite's words echoes in the confines of his skull.

There is nothing that he can do.

It isn't until his back hits the bed that the boy realizes that he still doesn't know where the pills are.


End file.
